


Chasing the After

by honeysweetcutie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anorexia, Black Hermione Granger, Bulimia, Depression, Eating Disorders, F/M, Healing, PTSD, Past Suicide Attempts, Racism, Recovery, Relapse, osfed, past self-harm, treatment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29894673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeysweetcutie/pseuds/honeysweetcutie
Summary: Hermione’s spent her whole life escaping from the person she was before. Before she got her magic. Before the war. Before she got sick. She can’t even look at a photo of her childhood self without feeling ashamed.Maybe she’s chasing an after she doesn’t deserve.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	1. Trigger Warnings and Notes

**Someone complained that I have too many WIPs.**

So here I am, starting another one.

This story is very personal to me. It is not dark and is entirely recovery-focused. It tackles tough topics of racism that many people will not agree with, but that are the reality that a lot of BIPOC and POC people face. This is a story about eating disorder recovery and discussion will be frank and honest.

This is Black Hermione.

_Cover art drawn by me!_

* * *

This is being uploaded for archive purposes so that it is always clear who wrote it. It will most likely be a full-length work. When the story is complete, it will be uploaded onto my website for easy reading. You just go to honeysweetwriting dot com / fanfictions, and the pdf will be there.

 **DO NOT FEEL INCLINED TO LEAVE A REVIEW**. Simply enjoy reading without the pressure of leaving a comment~

* * *

**TRIGGER WARNINGS:**

ED talk

Body talk

Racism talk

Recovery talk

Suicidal ideation in a group therapy setting

Mentions of self-harm/past self-harm

Bulimia/Anorexia/OSFED

_If you believe I have missed a trigger warning at any time, kindly send me a respectful PM and I will add it in if I agree!_

* * *

**As always, I write trauma from personal experience so be mindful and respectful in your reviews. I monitor them all-including signed-in ones.**

**Thank you!**


	2. Chapter One

**  
Chapter One**

"Do me a favor, Hermione. Do me a favor and look at this picture of you. Look at this picture of you as a child, and tell her she's ugly."

Hermione wasn't sure how that was supposed to help. How was she supposed to look at a child and tell that child that they were ugly? It didn't make any sense. Not only was it just a picture, but it was a _child_.

And it wasn't like it would _matter_ , anyway. The picture of her—of her standing next to her mother, both shining terracotta brown under the sunlight—was from ages ago. From a time before Hogwarts and magic and Voldemort. A time before spells and Harry and the Restricted Section and Hogsmeade.

A time before her failed relationship with Ron. Before the scar on her arm and the Cruciatus. Before she found more solace in an empty stomach than she did in sleeping.

In that picture, she was seven and she was wearing a pink jumpsuit. Her shoes were pink, too, and the baubles in her curly puffs were the same shade. She was missing teeth but she was smiling. She was smiling, and that made it hard for her to look at the photograph.

Hermione couldn't remember what it felt like to truly smile.

"I can't," she said, her gaze lifting from the still photo and meeting her Healer's.

"But you can say it to yourself now, over and over again," Healer Knoxley said, her eyes wide behind the rims of her spectacles. "Don't you think you should be able to say it to her?"

"She's only seven."

"So?"

"There's a difference." Hermione fidgeted with the fabric of her jumper.

"That's the thing, Hermione, is that there's not a difference," Knoxley said with an almost sympathetic smile. "There's no difference looking yourself in the mirror right now at twenty-five, than there is looking at yourself when you're seven. This little girl right here—" Her finger, covered in umber skin darker than Hermione's, tapped against Hermione's childhood self on the paper. "—is still inside you. And what do you think she would do if you looked at her and told her she was ugly?"

Hermione looked off to the right, at the bookshelf stacked with tomes.

"Depends. If it were me in First Year, she'd probably cry. After that, Harry or Ron would deal with anyone who said that. And anytime after Sixth Year, I'd deal with them myself."

"Not in school, Hermione, now. If you as yourself now looked into _this little girl's_ eyes and told her that she was so ugly that she wasn't allowed to eat until a man told her she was beautiful, then what—"

"That's repugnant." Hermione glared at her. "I would never say that."

Healer Knoxley paused and then, in slow, measured words, she said, "Then why would you tell yourself that now?"

Hermione opened her mouth, prepared to lash her with words that would prove that there was, in fact, a difference between telling a seven-year-old that only men's opinions mattered and telling a twenty-five-year-old the same thing. But as she made to say them, she realized how absolutely absurd they were.

Knoxley spoke into the silence, as she had to do many times during Hermione's appointments with her.

"I think a lot of times, we say horrid, hurtful things to ourselves without remembering that we're people. Whole people with hearts and feelings and emotions. And I think we forget that once, we were seven-year-old girls with cute pink outfits and little Afro puffs on top of our heads who smiled for photographs on sunny days."

Hermione's heart clenched, squeezed tight into a ball. This was the moment where she got overwhelmed. Facing these things never failed to render her a speechless, emotional mess.

On the outside, she remained stoic.

"I think it's a little more complicated than that," Hermione said, speaking past the ache in her throat. "Just because some people may find me attractive now, doesn't mean that everyone in my past has. And when you've been told you're ugly by multiple people over and over again . . . That doesn't feel like coincidence."

"Hermione, look at me."

She did.

"What do you find ugly on yourself?"

Hermione blinked, a bit taken aback. She'd never really dissected what about herself she found unattractive. And in her experience, no one was really interested in hearing it. She imagined they'd get fed up or annoyed before she made it to her nose.

"You really want to know?"

"Yes," her Healer said, crossing her legs. "I'm listening. Tell me exactly what you don't like about yourself."

Hermione continued to twist her jumper around her fingers. This wasn't exactly complicated—she knew what she didn't like. She'd spent years figuring it out, analyzing her facial features, and narrowing it down to main problem areas.

"Just like . . . On my face? Or my body?"

"Tell me exactly what you don't like about yourself."

Hermione eyed her in suspicion. This felt like a Healer trap but she was here to get better. She'd been here for the past two months because she wanted to get better. She didn't want Teddy walking in on her passed out by a toilet filled with sick when she was staying the night at Harry and Ginny's ever again. She didn't want Minister Shacklebolt having to carry her out of the Wizengamot because she fainted during a trial again. And she really didn't want to have to go to St. Mungo's again.

"I don't like my nose, my lips, my face shape, my forehead, my stomach, my breasts, or my thighs." Hermione spoke in a clipped tone. "I also don't like how uneven my skin tone is. I'm very pale in the face while the rest of me is properly brown. I wish it was even all over."

Knoxley watched her.

Hermione sighed. "And I don't like that my hair is bad. I wish I'd gotten the good hair."

"There's no such thing as bad hair."

"The curls are tight and different all over my head. None of them are loose. I can never seem to grow it past my shoulders. And—" She gestured to it, knowing that the Healer could very plainly see that her Afro was all types of out of control. "—it just makes my head look so big."

"What's wrong with having a big head?"

"I feel masculine. I want to feel feminine. I don't know. I just feel . . . Large."

"Why?"

"Well, because how am I ever going to get married if I'm bigger than my husband? How is he ever supposed to feel like a man if I'm more masculine than him? I know that sounds desperate, like I'm just trying to get 'picked,' but . . . It's hard when I feel like I have so much to offer up here." She tapped the side of her head. "But no one wants it because I don't look right. I feel like maybe if I were like other girls and I was having to turn men down left and right, it would be easier for me to be more independent because I would feel like I had the choice to be.

"But I don't get asked out. I don't turn down dates because there are no dates to turn down. My only real boyfriend only wanted to sleep with me when I hid everything about me that made me look Black. Women tell me I look pretty but how am I supposed to believe that when I can sit down on a bench in a park with a smile on my face and no one approaches me? I just want to be approached. I want someone to want me.

"And I suppose that makes me a bit . . ." She blinked again, rapid flicks of her eyelids over tearful eyes. Her voice broke. "A bit worthless, don't you think?"

Healer Knoxley lowered her chin and fixed Hermione with a stern look. "Hermione, listen to what you're saying. You're telling me that the only way you'll feel beautiful is if your potential husband feels confident. That the only way you think you have any value is if a man tells you that you do. That the male gaze is tantamount to worth."

"What?" Hermione stared at her, her mind short-circuiting. "No. That's not—"

"Yes, that's exactly what you're saying."

"I'm a strong person."

"Yes," Knoxley said, "but you being a strong person doesn't cancel out the fact that you've placed your worth in the male opinion."

"That's misogynistic."

"It is. And you've internalized it. Which is why you're so shocked at the realization."

Hermione said nothing, her perturbed gaze falling to the carpeted floor in front of her. It was so absurd. Everything she'd just said was so _absurd_. It was embarrassing.

But it was true.

Ten compliments from women would mean nothing to Hermione. One compliment from a random man on the street would have Hermione over the moon for an entire week.

Why?

Knoxley pursed her lips.

"Hermione, do you feel that people deserve food?"

"Um—Well, yes. You mean, humanity in general?" Hermione's brow furrowed. "Yes, I believe they should all have access to food."

"Regardless of the way they look?"

Hermione laughed in incredulity. "Of course, Healer Knoxley. I would never restrict food from people on the basis of looks."

"So why would you restrict yourself?"

Silence.

Hermione couldn't speak. She felt like she'd been hit by a stray Bludger.

"Hermione, I think I see what the problem is. I think that your experiences with racism and society and the way you are perceived by non-Black individuals has caused you to hyper-focus on the thing things you think are 'wrong' with yourself. The things that aren't 'white' stand out to you as 'wrong' because society has told you that there's only one correct way to be beautiful. But that's simply not true. Look at my hair."

Hermione looked at the locs that were falling out of the top of her head, resting on her chest. "I like it."

"So do I. And the best part is, it's mine. It grows out of my head, so it's mine and that means that I get to decide how I perceive it. I perceive it as beautiful. We need to work on getting you to a place where you can look at your natural hair and perceive it as beautiful— _regardless_ of if other people find it beautiful."

Hermione felt the depression settling over her like a cloak.

"That makes me a bad person. I should be able to look at myself and not feel this way."

"No, it doesn't." There was a ferocity in Healer Knoxley's voice. "Suffering from the effects of racism does _not_ make you a bad person. There is no such thing as 'should'. Strike it from your vocabulary."

"Why?"

"Because it implies that there's a correct way to be. A correct way that you may not ever be able to live up to. And not being able to live up to preconceived ideals and dreamlike states is the reason why you're here, isn't it? The problem is that because you can't accept your natural features, you're starving yourself to try and fit into a mold you think is more desired than the mold you currently fit into. You're hurting yourself because you think that—"

Hermione cut her off as the epiphany slammed into her.

"Because I think that if I can't be white, then I'll just be skinny. And then they'll want me."

Healer Knoxley raised both of her hands. "Exactly, Hermione. Exactly."

Hermione couldn't help but smile. It wasn't often that she came to any realizations. And as fucked up as that realization was, that was further than they'd gotten in a while.

"Now that we've both figured this out," Knoxley said, "we can start working on it. Knowing where to start from is where we need to be. It's not going to be easy but I want you to know that feeling this way—feeling like you won't be wanted unless you're white—is _not your fault_."

"It's messed up," Hermione said. "But no, I know it's not my fault."

"Well, that's why you're in treatment, isn't it?"

They both laughed.

"It's important to remember, Hermione, that just because you feel this way about yourself, doesn't mean that you feel this way about other people. Just because you're struggling with your ethnicity, doesn't mean that you're a horrible person who thinks this way about other people. Eating disorders are extremely self-centric. You are typically only focusing on yourself and the way you feel about the way you look. There's no room for other people."

Hermione nodded. "I don't have the energy to look at or think about anyone else."

"And that's because you don't have the energy to do anything because you're not getting the nutrients you need." Knoxley's facial expression was sympathetic again, yet hopeful. "But again, that's why you're here. You took the first step to recovery, and you're still taking those steps by being here and facing these difficult situations."

"Okay." Hermione nodded, her knuckles turning pale brown from how tight she was holding the hem of her jumper. "So how do I fix it?"

"It's not something you fix." Knoxley smiled at her. "It's something you heal. And I know you know how healing spells work."

"Slowly." Hermione took a deep breath. "And steadily. They knit the skin or build up the organ. Erase the illness."

"That's what we need to do. We need to erase your eating disorder. Break it down to something manageable. And then we can start knitting that skin back together and building you up."

"To who I was before?"

"No." Knoxley shook her head. "To a version of yourself that you can be happy with. A version of yourself that you love. Okay?"

Hermione nodded, taking another deep breath that ended in a laugh from both of them. It was a heavy appointment today. They weren't usually this resounding. And even though Hermione had a lot to think about, she was happy that she'd figured something out about herself without copious amounts of self-hatred. She might not even have to brood about it.

It was something.

"I think that's enough for today. I want you to take this photo back with you," Knoxley said, tone still as gentle as it always was, "and I want you to show it to three different people. Show it to them and ask them to tell you if that little girl in the photo is ugly."

Hermione was confused. She didn't understand why the Healer kept saying " _that little girl."_ It was _her_. Why would she need to separate the two?

"Didn't we just figure this out?"

"We did," Knoxley said, her quill moving across the parchment on her notes in her lap. She stopped to smile up at Hermione. "But trust me on this one."

"What will this help with?"

Knoxley pursed her lips again. "Perception."

"We're in a residential treatment center, Healer Knoxley," Hermione said with a laugh. "You want me to ask how they perceive me?"

"No, I want you to ask how they perceive _her_." She gestured to the photograph with her quill. "Just trust me."

"So, I should say 'do you think I look ugly?' and watch their reaction?" Hermione asked with a grimace. She didn't like looking at the photo, so she turned it over. That version of herself felt alien. Too faraway.

"Of course not, Hermione."

"What's the point, though?"

"The point is that we need to get you to a place where you can confidently say that in spite of what anyone else may or may not think, you feel you have value. We need to get you to a place where you are happy and confident with your natural self—where you don't feel like the only way you'll feel beautiful is if a man tells you that you are."

"And me asking a bunch of disordered individuals to tell me I looked ugly as a child is going to help?"

" _No_." Knoxley sighed. "Hermione, I know you're just trying to make sense of this but I need you to trust me. Just take that photograph and show it to three people. Ask them to tell you if the child in the photograph is ugly. Then, when you come back in a couple days to see me, I want you to tell me what you learned."

"You mean what they said?"

"What you learned."

Hermione stood there for a moment. She'd never had trouble doing assignments and in Hogwarts, she never questioned them. Perhaps it was best to just do the assignment and see what Healer Knoxley said on Thursday.

"Head down to group," Knoxley said. "I think you should make it right on time if you do."

"Thank you, Healer Knoxley."

"Mm-hm."

As Hermione made her way down the hallway, with its eggshell white walls and blue carpeted floor, she found herself staring at the photograph. She knew in her heart she could never say the things she said to herself now, to herself as a child.

She didn't think she'd be able to say anything at all.

Because if she did that, then she would have to tell that child that no, things aren't going to get better. That no, no one finds her beautiful in her most natural state and if they tell her they do, she's going to assume they're lying. That walking outside in her natural hair, curly puffs of clouds that spiral out of the top of her head, will warrant her silence, but that walking past those same people with those same curls tamed to lie flat will net her more compliments than she'll know what to do with.

If she told that little girl that she would end up in a relationship with someone she thought truly loved her, who would then proceed to ensure she knew he preferred anything other than her, then she'd be upset. If she told her that his silence in the face of her natural self would spread like poison into every facet of their relationship, until he was only interested in her body, heart, and mind if she looked right, then she'd be sad.

If Hermione told that little girl that she would spend the next eighteen years feeling ugly in silence, then she'd be disappointed.

If she told her that she would spend her entire life wondering why no one found her beautiful unless she changed who she was, then that little girl would be scared.

* * *

Heading down the stairs, Hermione came upon the double doors to the Group Therapy room.

They were closed, so group was already in session. She pulled the door open a crack and slid in, seeing that almost all ten chairs were full. There was only one left.

Beside Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy.

He glanced up at her from beneath his floppy platinum hair as she took the seat beside his. She perched on it, as she always did, because group was her least favorite part of treatment. She was fine to talk about her issues in private with Healer Knoxley or the psychologist, even with the dietician. But when it came to sitting in a room full of other people, she was too ashamed to speak aloud. She usually listened.

The facilitator, Healer Smith, was a brunette man on the taller side. The only person in the entire treatment center that was taller than him was Malfoy, and that was because he was six-foot-four.

"Thank you for coming, Hermione. Were you with—"

"Healer Knoxley, yes," Hermione replied. She clutched her childhood photo close to her lap, sending a few nervous glances around to everyone in the chairs. "I'm so sorry I'm late."

"It's all right. I was just telling everyone what today's theme was."

"What's the—the theme?" The back of her neck prickled. It felt like everyone was staring at her.

Everyone except Malfoy.

"Before and After."

Hermione felt alarms bells ringing in her head. Her brows pulled together but she said nothing. Surely he had a reason for picking a theme like that. It seemed so counterproductive.

"I'm sure you're terrified," Healer Smith said with a laugh. "And that's because your idea of 'before' and 'after' is skewed. I'm sure most everyone here sees their 'before' as a state of being that they want to escape so they can get to the person they want to be—the 'after.' Right?"

No one moved except for Luna Lovegood, who was sitting across the circle with a dreamy expression of her face. She nodded, smiling like she was watching the sunset.

Healer Smith went on, "Well, part of the problem is that your eating disorder is twisting the idea of 'before' and 'after,' and turning it into something that probably varies for each of you. The 'before' may be something like who you were as a child, who you were before a life-altering event, or the person you were before you started engaging in behaviors.

"The problem is that your mind is so terrified of the 'before' that you'll do anything to get to that preconceived 'after,' even if that means you're hurting yourself. And that's where the disorder comes in. That's where those behaviors really start to dig in and affect you. So, what I wanted to do today was focus on those 'befores.' Who were you 'before'? Who is the person you want to escape from? The person you're trying to erase. Who are they?"

Healer Smith gestured to Luna, who sat exactly to his right. "Luna, do you want to start?"

Luna blinked through her haze and her smiled brightened. "That sounds all right by me. I can start."

The silence stretched on as she looked upwards, tapping her chin in thought.

"I suppose there never was a before for me. I've always felt different. I've always felt like I didn't quite fit in with other people. I started engaging in behaviors when I was a girl. Long before Hogwarts. And it just got easier to forget after my mother passed away. My father wasn't paying attention. No one at school was paying attention, either."

"Forget what?" Smith asked.

"To eat." Luna beamed for a moment and then her smile faded. "So I think that there never was a before. There was always only an after."

Healer Smith gave her a thoughtful look. "Do you think that maybe for you, the 'before' is something you've dreamed up? A person who never existed but that you imagined you're running from? A person who you wish came to be but never did?"

Luna stared at him. For the first time, she didn't look like she was dreaming.

"Oh," she said.

Smith smiled. "Oh is right. What are you thinking now?"

Luna looked down. "I believe you may be right. I think that maybe . . . Maybe the person I dreamed up does exist, but not to me. I think she exists when I look into my husband's eyes but I don't think she exists to me. So maybe my before is my now. My constant. And I'm running from the person he sees. I'm not sure that makes a lick of sense."

Healer Smith as well as a few other members of the group laughed.

"It makes sense to me," Seamus said. "I think Neville's always seen an angel when he looks at you, though, Luna."

Luna gave him a gentle smile. "Thanks, Seamus."

Healer Smith said, "I think that it's important that we recognize those things in ourselves—those imagined states—so we know what we're working with when we begin healing. I think that for you, Luna, it might be important for you to focus on that dream of your 'before' when you meet with your Mind Healer this week. Healer Endow will be able to help you unpack that and explore it a little bit. All right, who wants to go next?"

It was quiet for a little bit, and then it seemed like the stories began pouring out. Everyone shared their 'befores,' starting with Seamus, who talked about the happy-go-lucky goofball he was before the war, before he started purging to cope with his traumatic nightmares. Next went Parvati, who spoke of restricting for years to cope with parental pressure to bring home excellent marks. Then a girl Hermione remembered going to a couple classes with named Elizabeth spoke, talking about how the person she was 'before' was like Luna's—a person she felt like existed only in a fever dream that she could never be.

Like she was always chasing an after.

Hermione realized she felt a little bit like that. Yes, she had a 'before'. Her 'before' was that little girl with the pink baubles in her puffs in the photograph. But it felt so far away that it almost was like a dream, like she existed in the space that stretched empty between stars.

And maybe that was why she found that solace in an empty stomach. Because the place where her 'before' existed was floating in that emptiness.

"Hermione?"

Hermione jolted out of her reverie. Everyone was looking at her again. This time, Malfoy was, too. He was leaned forward with his elbows on his thighs, fingers interlaced as he rested his chin on the pads of his thumbs. His head was turned a bit to the side and he was watching her. His gaze was always so intense.

"Did you want to go next?" Healer Smith said.

"Me? O-Oh, no. Not today."

"Are you sure? I don't think we've heard you speak before."

"It's all right." Hermione waved a dismissive hand. "I'm okay. Maybe someone else this time."

Healer Smith studied her, like he always did when she declined, and then he turned his attention on Malfoy. "Draco, how about you?"

Malfoy's eyelids fluttered as he sighed. He sat up, resting his hands between his thighs as he relaxed back in his seat, one leg outstretched.

"Yeah, I'll go."

Hermione stared at him, as she always did when he spoke in group. She usually saw him in the Rec room during their break times, or in the Cafe room when they were eating meals, but she rarely heard him speak unless it was in group. Every time he did, it felt like he was dropping some insane kernel of knowledge or information that shocked Hermione to her core. It could be because she hadn't spoken to him much over the years.

It could also be because he was extremely handsome.

But she tried to ignore that. She had to. After the things she'd learned about herself in therapy today, she needed to put men from her mind entirely.

It wasn't like _Draco Malfoy_ would ever be the sort to compliment her, anyway. He was the one who'd made sure she knew how ugly he thought her hair was when they were First Years. He was part of the reason why she . . .

No, she couldn't think like that. It wasn't right. She was here because she wasn't well, and because she'd hurt herself. She'd landed herself in St. Mungo's multiple times—Malfoy had nothing to do with that.

"What, you want me to talk about my before?" Malfoy rubbed his fingers along the stubble on his jaw. He was wearing a simple pair of denims and a black jumper. There were circles beneath his eyes. "Where do you want me to start?"

"Wherever you'd like, Draco," Healer Smith said, gesturing with his quill, his other hand curled around the top of the clipboard in his lap. "This is your time to share."

"I have a lot of befores," Malfoy said. "There's before my father went to Azkaban, before the war, before the Dark Lord came back, before Hogwarts, before I got sick. Which before do you want?"

Hermione shifted in her seat. His tone was aggressive.

"Draco," Healer Smith said slowly. "This is your time. You can start wherever you'd like."

Malfoy gritted his jaw—Hermione saw something working in the clenching of his teeth. He ran his hands backward through his hair and then leaned forward on his elbows again. She saw that his fingernails were painted black, automatically knowing it must have been Nurse Bertha Mae who did it. She painted everyone's nails in the Rec room.

"I know what everyone _wants_ to hear," he muttered. "They want to hear me talk about before the war ended. They want to hear what it was like when the Dark Lord was in my house."

"Is that what you think everyone wants to hear?"

"No one has to say it. I just know it." Malfoy scowled. "It was exactly as much of a fucking nightmare as you think."

"How so?" Smith said.

"It was like . . ." Malfoy sat back again, tipping his head so he was staring at the ceiling. Hermione watched the apple of his throat bob as he swallowed. "You didn't speak . . . When he was there. You didn't speak because if you did, you might slip up. And if you slipped up around the Dark Lord, there were no second chances. You didn't mess up because if you messed up, you were a liability. The Dark Lord has— _had_ no room for liabilities." He was quiet for a second, his gaze fixated upon the carpet. "I saw a lot of people die."

Smith said nothing, and neither did anyone else. Everyone just stared at him.

Because in a way, Malfoy was right. Everyone _did_ want to know what it was like during the war. The dark things they heard about Lord Voldemort were all just hearsay. The only person in that entire treatment center who had firsthand knowledge of his regime was Malfoy.

But Hermione could tell.

It pained him. It had sunk its claws in and torn him apart.

"I saw a lot of people die who didn't deserve it, and a lot of people die who did. And I didn't speak because you _didn't speak_. You didn't mess up. You didn't make yourself into a liability. You kept your mouth shut and you kept your face blank. If you couldn't keep your face blank, you wore your mask. Those were the rules."

"Did you have to kill anyone?"

Everyone turned to look at Dennis, whose eyes were wide in rapt attention.

Malfoy looked him up and down, his normally cold expression softening a bit. "No. Just watched. If I had killed anyone—"

"If he'd killed anyone, he'd still be in Azkaban," Elizabeth said with a bit of a sneer. She twisted a lock of golden blonde hair around her finger. "He's lucky he only got one year."

Hermione cast Elizabeth a wary glance. She wasn't known for being the _kindest_ one at treatment. When she spoke, she spoke with a brutal honesty that was very Slytherin. In fact, she could be trusted to tell the express truth, no matter how hurtful.

She was going to be the first person Hermione tried her homework assignment out on.

"I didn't kill anyone," Malfoy repeated, fixing Elizabeth with a frosty gaze. "He asked me once and I failed, so he didn't ask me again."

"That made you a liability," Elizabeth shot back. "So why didn't he kill you?"

"Because I proved myself in other ways," Malfoy said in a quiet voice. "Some people aren't easy to kill unless you get inside their heads first. The Dark Lord was good at Legilimency. I was better."

A chill ran up the length of Hermione's spine.

"All right, all right." Healer Smith cleared his throat. "Let's stay on track. Draco, do you think that maybe your memories of what happened in your home with the Dark Lord are the reason why you're perhaps focused on attaining your 'after'?"

"There is no after for me," Malfoy said, tone muted as he plucked at a loose thread in the seam of his denims. "Just a bunch of befores that aren't something I want to return to anyway."

"Hm." Healer Smith scrutinized him, nodding as his thoughts mulled visibly on his face. "Do you think that maybe you're engaging in behaviors because it helps you feel like you have some sort of control over those memories?

"You're asking me a question that's meant to lead me to your opinion," Malfoy replied.

"I'm not leading you to anything. I'm simply asking questions. Why do you think you're so resistant?

Malfoy crossed his arms over his chest. The withering stare he sent in Healer Smith's direction could have melted a glacier. "I'm not resistant."

"Then why won't you talk about why the memories are the root of your disorder?"

"It's not about the memories!" Malfoy shouted, causing several people in the circle to jolt in surprise. "It's not about the fucking memories, all right? My _disorder_ has no root. It just is."

"Then what is it about?"

Hermione held in a sigh. It was like this every time they went to group. Everyone except Hermione spoke, and Malfoy butted heads with Healer Smith. Sometimes, it seemed like Healer Smith really had it out for him but she couldn't be sure. Malfoy _was_ resistant. He didn't seem open to doing anything other than sulking, brooding, and saying things for shock factor.

He wanted to make sure everyone knew what a horrible person he was.

"It's not about befores or afters. It's about wasting away until there's nothing left. It's about want so badly to be dead because you're just so hideous inside that there's no point to your existence. It's about knowing that the things you've done are so bad—" Malfoy was waving one hand about, slicing it through the air to emphasize what he was saying. "—so reprehensible that you don't _deserve_ to live. Therefore you don't _deserve_ to breathe or to function or to be happy. It's about knowing that what you've done is so fucking disgusting that you don't deserve to eat. Because then, if you starve, you die. And if you're dead, then it's good." He let out a mirthless laugh and looked up at the ceiling again. "Oh, it's _so_ good. So no—it's not about the memories. It's about doing whatever it takes to kill myself the fastest because I'm too cowardly to slit my wrists."

The silence rang.

"I think it _is_ about the memories." Healer Smith's lips pulled up into a sympathetic smile. "I think the memories are the reason why you're so fixated on what you can control. You can't control the 'before' because that's where the memories started. You can't control the 'after' because that's where the memories live on. That's why there's no 'after' that you can envision. You can control the present because the present ends in your death."

Malfoy stared at him and then, like a house of cards tumbling to the tabletop, he lost it.

"You know what? _Fuck_ this."

He rose to his feet, turned on his heel, grabbed the back of his chair, and whipped it across the room. It went flying, slamming into a stack of chairs against the wall. Hermione flinched away as he spun back around and pointed an angry finger at Healer Smith.

"Fuck this. Fuck your stupid group therapy. Fuck _you_."

As he stormed off, Healer Smith didn't look the least bit bothered. In fact, he looked annoyed and bored.

"Draco," he said loudly. "Retrieve your chair and sit back down."

Malfoy flipped him off with both hands, walking backwards towards the door.

Then he was gone.

Healer Smith sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You know, I think that's enough group for today. You guys can head to snack time early."

* * *

Hermione waited by the door for Elizabeth, clutching her childhood photograph in both hands.

She was careful to keep a smile on her face, knowing that Elizabeth was grumpy enough for the both of them. The last thing she wanted was to sway her answer by having the wrong facial expression.

Elizabeth, arms crossed over her chest and a pout turned to the floor, approached the door hot on Healer Smith's heels.

"Elizabeth, hi!" Hermione said brightly. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

Elizabeth gave her a wary look, a curl to her upper lip that reminded Hermione of the way Pansy Parkinson used to look at her. She trudged to a stop in the open door frame, giving Hermione a once-over.

"I guess," she said. "What is it?"

"Well, in my therapy appointment today, Healer Knoxley gave me like, a homework assignment. She told me I should . . ." Hermione shook her head out, realizing that over-explaining might sway Elizabeth's answer. "Look at this picture and tell me what you think."

Hermione held her childhood photo out to Elizabeth, who cast it a quick glance.

"Looks like a little kid and her mother. And?"

"Do you . . . Do you think she's ugly? The little girl, I mean."

Elizabeth's facial expression contorted into one of revulsion. "What the Hell? Why would I say that to a little kid? I'm not a bully. Why would you even ask me that?"

Hermione let out a nervous laugh. "It's because my disorder is sort-of—sort-of based in me thinking I'm ugly for various reasons, and so I'm supposed to ask if anyone finds the younger version of me ugly so I can see if _I'm_ ugly."

"What the Hell is wrong with you? You want people to tell you you're _pretty_?"

"What? No." Hermione's brow furrowed in confusion. "That's not what I meant. It was Healer—"

"Wow." Elizabeth sneered. "Typical."

"Wait." Hermione's heart skipped a beat. "What?"

"I said this is typical." Elizabeth gave her another disdainful glance. "You, fishing for compliments in some way or another. It was never enough for you to be the smartest girl in our Year. You always had to make sure the professors were fawning all over you. You're asking me to tell you if a little girl is ugly, then in the same breath, asking for sympathy for you thinking you're ugly? This is _treatment_ , Hermione. People here are sick. They're here to get real help. You're pathetic."

"That's not true!" Hermione cried.

"Yes, it is. You're asking me this like everyone's just sitting around, calling you hideous. Yet all I ever hear are people saying nice things about you. For Merlin's sake, you got an Order of Merlin!"

"If that were the case, then why would I be here?!" Hermione threw one hand up into the air. "Why would I come to treatment if I just wanted compliments?"

"Because you want the attention. You got all the attention at Hogwarts, and then you got attention for winning the war. Now, everyone's moved on and you want that feeling back. But you never say anything in group, probably because you just want everyone to wonder what's wrong and ask you. You want _attention_ , and _that's_ why you're asking me to tell you that you look ugly."

Hermione had no words. Elizabeth was so wrong. She was so wrong that it was impossible to respond.

"I wish everyone could just see what a horrible person you are," Elizabeth spat. "You know you're pretty. You just want to make other people tell you that you are so you can feel like you're better than them. Maybe you just need to accept that no matter how pretty you are on the outside, you're still fucking ugly on the inside." She gave her one final once-over. "See you at snack time."

Hermione stood in the hallway by herself for a long time after that, staring down at the photograph of herself and wondering what was wrong with her. She hadn't been able to speak up for herself the way she wanted to. Elizabeth seemed to hate her for no reason—to misunderstand her on purpose.

She wasn't pretending. She truly did think she was ugly. She truly did feel like she was as hideous as she was intelligent, and she could barely stand to look at herself in the mirror for longer than it took to brush her teeth.

Was it just because she had a horrible personality?

If that were the case, then there was no hope for her. Bad personalities couldn't be fixed. Bad personalities doomed you to a life alone. Is that what was going to happen to her? Was she going to end up alone?

The implication that she was here for attention and not because she had an eating disorder made her want to be sick. Did everyone think that? Did everyone think she was here, taking space away from someone who was _really_ sick?

What if she wasn't even ill? What if her disorder was fake? What if it was just a bid for attention?

A tear slipped down her cheek.

As she stood there, looking down at the toothy smile of a version of herself that existed in her before, Hermione realized that she was chasing an after that she might not even deserve.


End file.
